


Past-Tense

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Series: Past-Tense [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Forced Abortion, Kink Meme, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Objectification, body fluids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill from The Avengers Kink Meme - </p><p>Abridged Prompt: "...After Steve begins to work with Strike he keeps getting these odd moments where he could swear he smells Bucky, specifically Bucky in heat, then he starts to realise this comes from Rumlow... but Rumlow's an alpha so how could that be?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a prompt from the Avengers Kink Meme - 
> 
> Original Prompt (contains mild spoilers for the upcoming plot) - http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19023.html?thread=45030223#t45030223

Hospitals were never exactly places of pleasant memory for Steven Rogers. Sure, even in the twenties they’d try to make children’s wards nice and airy, borders in friendly patterns around the upper walls, a bunch of rag tag flowers here and there, but there was no way to disguise the pills, the needles, the oxygen masks – he’d hated those the most as a kid, started screaming blue murder every time they rolled the cart in. Didn’t make for comforting associations in adulthood.

He supposed this latest tragedy would just add another strike to the already bulging record.

The flatline continued to ring inside his head as he slipped out of the operating theatre, the carbon steel drive growing slick with sweat against his palm. For a moment, every blinding white corridor seemed to stretch into infinity, reality falling into a tailspin, but Steve was accustomed to that. It happened a lot in war – the sudden _snip snip snip_ of hundreds of threads connecting the living to the now-deceased, people you had known and spoken to, shared life, shared existence with, two grains of sand placed alongside one another for only a fragment of time, before the wind blew one far out of reach, never to be found...

Some of the officers hardened themselves to it. Steve never understood how. And yet, it was never their friends, their lovers, their mates, their wives, their husbands...

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Steve turned a sharp corner to the left, only to regret it instantly. Fecund scents washed across his senses like a tidal wave, as the six omegas seated on the scattered sofas instinctively shielded themselves and their unborn offspring, the several alphas present wrapping a protective arm around their respective mates at the sudden presence of a rival.

Hospital regulation, even in the twenty-first century, dictated that maternity and delivery wards be located within easy distance of the ICU and emergency units. One of his biggest disappointments really – for all the big talks and promises that heavy-named doctors had made in the past, there was still no such thing as safe childbirth. Fatalities had of course gone down thanks to advances in surgery, now more often resulting in the death of the carrier or the baby rather than both...

A pony-tailed nurse eased past him with a polite murmur, followed closely by a thick-armed male alpha in army fatigues, one of his apish hands resting lovingly on the shoulder of his dark-haired omega wife. Her belly swelled vastly under the blue cotton maternity blouse.  

Something inside him twinged, but he allowed himself no time to dwell on it.

His phone buzzed.

Fingers and thumb flipped open the text robotically – he wasn’t even sure he could react at this point. From Natasha.

**Body relocated to morgue. Need you here.**

“Sir?”

Steve glanced up to find the same petite nurse poised in a likely practiced stance of concerned readiness.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

His hand clenched around the drive, as he forced his tongue into movement.

“Not anymore.” He half-whispered, turning quickly back down the corridor towards the mortuary.

 

*

 

 

_The tent was dim, lit up low and golden by the electric lantern next to the cot, alpine wind screaming through the pine trees down in the valleys thousands of feet below. Some carousing laughter could be heard from the tents nearby, but Steve ignored it happily. Painted-steel buttons slipped free of padded wool under his fingers, revealing supple skin, almost hairless in the light, and Bucky smirked as Steve mouthed his way down his bared chest._

_“It’s not gonna show yet...”_

_Steve chuckled under his breath, blue eyes flitting upwards to his mate’s, glowing, as he slid to his knees and undid the clasps on Bucky’s combat trousers, just enough to expose his lower belly._

_“It will. Let a guy dream for now, Buck.”_

_Long fingers combed through his dark blond hair as he slid his cheek against the still smooth expanse of skin, his over-muscled arms wrapped half affectionately, half protectively around slim hips._

_“Better enjoy it now – you won’t want me too much after I’ve gone all soft.”_

_“Like hell. You’ll be gorgeous.”_

_“I’ll be a pig.”_

_“Shut it. Come on, you’ve been like this all week,” Steve murmured in a tone he hoped was placating, climbing off his knees and drawing the sergeant in close, toying with the dog tags on his chest. A loud laugh cut through the night outside, and Steve’s eyes shot to the tent flap, hardening._

_“Is one of them giving you flack again? ‘Cause I swear to God, Buck, I’ll –“_

_“Naw, c’mon Steve, you know them... It’s...” He swallowed with some difficulty, fingers curling at the back of Steve’s neck. He wet his lips. “You heard what happened with Graham last month, right? He was only a month along or somethin’, and - I mean – it’d be so easy, I could bleed out in my sleep, you wouldn’t even know until morning – and it’s in my family too, my grandad didn’t make it through when my mom was born –“_

_“Hey, hey hey hey – you think I’d even consider lettin’ you go under the knife without holdin’ onto you the whole time and giving every doc in the room a sore ear? They’d do their damn best to keep you both okay just to get rid of me.”_

_Bucky managed a weak smile, eyes falling before Steve caught his chin gently._

_“Hey, look at me? You’re not gonna die here Buck, neither of us are – in whatever way, alright? Tomorrow, we’re going to bring that train in, finish off HYDRA, and before any of us knows it the war’ll be finished, and we can slip away somewhere with our boy,” – his hand rested briefly between Bucky’s hips – “live a quiet, boring life, get old and feeble, tell war stories to the grandkids...”_

_He went quiet as a pair of soft lips brushed across his own, his mouth full of a warm tongue as muscles worked smoothly under his grasping fingers._

_“...Think it’s a boy, huh?” Bucky mumbled, nuzzling at his nose playfully. Steve flashed him a gentle smile as he laid him back against the army reg blankets, caressing his neck._

_“It’d have to be – you and me, a little girl’d run away before she could walk.”_

_They both huffed a laugh, allowing the silence afterward to settle gently as they curled up close and hungry..._

*

 

_According to regulation, the officer responsible for capture was required to be present when the prisoner was interrogated, but they needed Zola alive and Phillips wasn’t stupid. When he entered the soundproofed cell, carrying a cut of beef and a glass of milk, he was alone._

_The diminutive Swiss scientist was all cool confidence until an ear-piercing roar – half muffled by the thick glass – broke through the small one-way mirror. The prim smirk dropped from his face like a stone as the Colonel lifted his eyebrows, unruffled._

_“Now that, my friend,” he muttered, still chewing casually at the steak, “is why you’d probably find it best to keep your head low and make like a good dog until we say heel.”_

_Zola thinned his lips, clearly attempting to salvage his weakened pride._

_“Threats –“_

_“Believe me, that was no threat – that was just a bit of friendly advice, given that the last man you cost us was knocked up with Captain Roger’s kid, so if I were you, I wouldn’t count on the very best of protection.”_

_Only particularly well-tuned senses would have been able to detect the fear reeking from the sweat dotting the scientist’s brow, but Phillips was not an average alpha._

_Behind seven inches of glass, a spider-webbed crack already decorating the left side of the window, three privates, five commandos, a master sergeant, two members of the naval division, and Howard Stark clung to over-built limbs as Steve struggled with every reserve of his intimidating strength. His chest heaved as Agent Carter tightened her arms around his neck, the toes of her brown pumps barely touching the floor as Steve muffled his sobs into her hair._

*

 

It was best not to dwell too long on the past. Not if you wanted to keep your mind intact.

Steve had come to consider that Lesson One.

Garret pulled the van out of the reserve parking and onto the highway, wind slicing against the bulletproof windows as Steve concentrated his focus on the grain of his dark denim jeans. Tallied the thread count. At least that was precise. Orderly. Predictable.

His life had been too. Once.

“Sorry about what happened with Fury.” Rumlow muttered from the opposite bench, in a tone of practiced bereavement. “t’s messed up, what happened to him.”

Steve doubted the thug had ever mourned anything a day in his life. Probably fried ants with a magnifying glass when he was a kid.

Steve sighed, and beat down the tension in his brain. Clearly it preferred to work itself out by making him bitter.

“Thanks.”

The van went silent, pavement roaring past underneath the industrial grade wheels. Rumlow scratched at his unshaved neck.

Was this all it boiled down to? A commander – replaced every few decades - feeding him new orders, new battle plans, while Rumlow and whatever handlers came after carted him off to spill more blood, break fresh bones, wring flesh into shapeless masses at the whim of a government separate from the nation.

He’d spent his life throwing punches at bullies. When had he decided to work for them?

Vanilla. Vanilla and cinnamon. Sweet. Sickly, sickly sweet.

A cold sweat prickled up all over his skin, his heart kicking sporadically until he could feel the pounding against his rib cage. An incoherent noise slipped off his tongue, and half the strike team glanced up, eyebrows raised.

“Cap?”

Steve gulped down a mouthful of saliva, his hands trembling as the interior of the cabin seemed to boil. Damn it, the medication was supposed to take care of it – so much for the wonders of modern psychopharmacology...

“’m fine... Get us back to base.”

Rumlow nodded, a sweat glistening fist banging at the shatterproof glass separating the driver from the passengers.

 

*

 

“Your last evaluation was over two months ago.”

There was some level of impatience evident in the man’s raspy mutter, and Steve shifted uncomfortably in the white leather armchair as a file folder was dumped unceremoniously on the glass top table between them.

The psychologist leaned back in his own over-firm seat and steepled his lined fingers.

“Any particularly interesting reason for the delay, or do I just bore you?”

Blue eyes rolled to the ceiling.

“Sorry if it’s obvious, sir – “

“Don’t be – I’d bore me. And for crying out loud, I told you, it’s not sir. I’m not your general or your field marshal; I’m your headshrinker. Call me doc if you need to, but I’m sixty-nine already – no need to rub it in Rogers.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever. So, what brought it on this time? – salt water taffy, train caboose, Goldie’s Boxing Gym – ?“

Steve glared. “And you wonder why I don’t turn up anymore.”

“If you want to lose the dependency on memory, then you have to accept it for what it is – memory, and the far distant past. You learn to accept it as past, accept the trauma, learn to deal with it. This is why I have a job.” He raised his eyebrows – Steve was reminded forcibly of a pair of enormous silver caterpillars.

“So what was it? It’s your time we’re wasting by letting the clock run out, I’m paid by the hour.”

“A maternity ward.” The soldier muttered eventually, picking at a non-existent hangnail.

“Yep, that’d do it..” He flipped the file shut, his face pensive. “...You still blame yourself, don’t you?”

Steve bit at the inside of his mouth, jaw working.

“... Never shoulda let him near that train. Not...”

“Pregnant?” the psychologist offered unhelpfully. “Look, even I know the forties weren’t the greatest era for an omega in the family way – barefoot and knocked up, that was the catchphrase, wasn’t it? Not to mention, omegas themselves had about as many social rights as your average gerbil. And yet, something tells me neither you or he would have exactly appreciated that particular sentiment, even if it directly applied to both of you.”

“I knew better – he didn’t have the energy, he’d been sick – he even told me the night before –“

“Did you mate?”

Steve’s head shot up, eyes wide.

“Excuse me - ?!”

“Simple question, did you have sex the night before he died?” 

_Hot lips mouthed at his neck and shoulders, his hair thickened with perspiration, long fingers groping at his ribs and every inch of flesh within reach, and vanilla-cinnamon was everywhere, in their mouths, on their skin, in their sweat..._

“I don’t see why that’s releva-“

“It’s one of the most relevant points of your situation – but, okay. I get it. So you didn’t have sexual intercourse with your mate shortly before his death in 1945; then obviously there’s no chance that all those endorphin-laced pheromones infamously released by a horny omega were some of the last associations you could make with the man you loved. And, subsequently, make psychological relations to when exposed to an outside trigger – like, oh, say, emotional reminiscence...”

“You’ve made your point, okay?” Steve broke in, muscles tight. “Now could you please just drug me up and get me outta here?”

The shrink rolled his eyes, but apparent love for his office’s continued well-being seemed to win out.

“You do realize chemical cocktails only go so far, Captain? Not to mention I’m at the edge of my professional limit – you want anything stronger after this, you’ll be seeing a specialist. If you want my personal advice – and I’m well aware you don’t, but humor me – find yourself someone new, pretty, and with the mental maturity to handle a ninety-five year old. I hear vintage is in right now, you’ll be popular. ”

A black and gold fountain pen clicked open, and scribbled across an old-fashioned triplicate – the entire prescription could have been filed and filled in less than three minutes with a Stark pad, but every SHIELD department had quickly learned that when it came to Captain Rogers, paper was safer.

“We’ll up the levels of cyproterone acetate, and start you on a low dose of Depo-Provera – the injections’ll be performed by a physician here or we can have the pens delivered to you at home, your choice. One shot every twelve weeks, helps if you use a calendar.”

He ripped the sheets out of the triplicate pad and handed over the white and pink copies with a look of mild irritation. Steve muttered something in thanks before climbing to his feet, latching the shield to the magnets on his back as he moved towards the glass door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter will contain dub/non-con, and references to a forced abortion procedure (nothing graphic is shown or described, but it could be triggering for some people.)

Another thrust, deeper this time, and the asset’s mouth overflowed with spit. Gross, but biological, probably something that Brock would have picked up on if he’d paid attention in tenth grade biology – not real important though. Just another way of getting him nice and soaking wet, forcing all that sweet stink into the air. And damn was he wet, like one of the salmon Brock would catch as a kid by Lake Ontario – stripped of it’s shining scales, pink and glistening, one silver fin left to glitter in the dim light. He’d liked fish. Liked hooking them in, watching them wriggle...

“Hot little bitch, huh, fuckin’ boiling –“

The legs of the chair rattled against the tiles, pale thighs twitching in the stirrups with every slap to a swollen pectoral, trigger cauloused fingers twisting at blood-darkened nipples.

“Miss me much, huh?” he panted, sweat streaming in rivulets under his black polyester t-shirt as his hips worked.  “Kept thinkin’ about you all day, hard on for hours, blue steel – fuckin’ ass pussy, keep yourself all fuckin’ tight for me, all juicy and thick –“

The asset didn’t respond – never did, dark grey eyes hidden under opaque black plastic. He couldn’t help the noises though, they were something wired into him, into the brain of anything with a wet hole meant for fucking.

His tongue crept past his teeth, tasting the alpha scent on the air, almost hesitant and shy, and damn if it didn’t do things to Brock’s insides. Blood throbbed at the base of his cock as the skin began to stretch, bordering just on the edge of what he could call good pain.

“Bet you love this, little fuckin’ robot, can’t even help liking it – bet it works better for you that way, less to complain about, huh, just lie there and take it like the little knot slut you are –“

He leaned in closer, arms bracketing restrained shoulders.

“Think maybe I could knock you up this time, show the boss what you’re good for? – Getcha good and deep –“

A whimper finally uncurled from some hidden place, and Brock huffed a fucked-out laugh.

“Like that, huh? Yeah, okay, I’ll give you a baby, beautiful – fill you up with the right kind of babies – “

Pain ripped through his groin as the asset reared up, saliva frothing at his lips. The knot tore free with a squeezing of flesh and a sludging flow of liquid, bones cracking as a silvered fist rammed into Brock’s sternum, sending him sliding five feet into the steel wall.

 The room erupted, six rifle chambers drawing back near simultaneously as multiples flexible restraints snapped free, and a boneless figure slid limply from the seat of the chair. Blood trickled down the inside of his thigh as a long-fingered hand ripped the blinders from grey eyes. He stared blankly, several of the security exchanging concerned glances.

“Call it in –“

*

He knew the sensation, every nerve in his body stripped raw and coated with oil, lit by a minute, inaccessible flame buried deep in his inner core, some place hard, red, and empty, burning quietly, insistently beneath the skin.

If it burned too long, then the pain would begin. There were times he couldn’t even walk – he simply wasn’t certain when those times had been.

He had learned quickly to associate the feeling with dread – the Superiors were never pleased. The Administrator in particular had complained constantly about his “impeccable sense of bad timing.” There was a faint, often vanishing image in his mind of the man backhanding him, once, when he’d started too soon, and a mission was left incomplete. No amount of electrocution would erase the memory of five days left in solitary to suffer alone, left to soak inside his leathers, the heat and liquid locked against his skin by the thick, insulating fabric...

He could hear the hum of the machinery nearby, connected by wires to his fingers and the flesh above his heart, the whirring of his arm as they stretched him on his back against mercifully cool metal. He’d been stripped of his leather and mesh shell, exposing the soft fragility of damp skin to the open air, and with his face free of the muzzle – scent blockers infused into the construction – the stench came rolling over him in waves. Sharp like petrol and rich with the tang of unknown, un-nameable spices, even overpowering, and at the worst of times the strength would send his eyes rolling back in his head.

... _Mustard gas,_ something at a lower corner of his mind whispered weakly, before dipping quietly beneath the surface.

Poison... toxic... sterile...

Sterilization.

He knew the word, had heard it spoken over his head more than once, only a day or so ago and hundreds of other moments he felt sure had occurred but couldn’t recall.

It meant nothing to him – they used dozens of strange-shaped words every day, but it was the way they glared at him, eyes sharp and calculating behind rims of glass, that caused the fear to bubble up in his stomach like nausea...

_“Shush...”_

His eyes widened, blinded by the dark plastic – he didn’t need to see a face, they had said, the scent would be sufficient to trigger a physiological response – but he could feel his hair as his neck twisted violently, falling across his face like a thin curtain. Someone laughed overhead, and his insides writhed as hot breath huffed across his skin, forcing the burning reek into his lungs...

_“Shush now... it will all be over quite soon.”_

_The face above him was softened by age and inactivity, small eyes fixed on his own from behind discs of glass with a gleam too triumphant to be as soothing as the owner seemingly wished._

_He wriggled helplessly but his thighs were spread, locked apart, and there was something inside him, something cold and achingly real, probing deeply..._

_“N-nn –“_

_“Shhhhh...” the face crooned, and yet somehow it was a face he knew, that he knew well enough to despise, to feel disgust, yet all he could manage was terror._

_“N-no -!”_

_“Relax, sergeant. It will make this much easier.”_

_An impossible order – his belly had tightened, muscles contracting uselessly in a vain attempt at protection. The small room seemed to blur and darken at the edges, his head spinning as sweat drenched his skin, stung at his eyes, as he fought for an impossible escape._

_“Don’t – no – don’t take him –“_

_The face smiled gently in answer, oozing self-satisfaction, and the panic bubbled over._

_“No! – Please, d-don’t take him –please don’t take him-!”_

_He twisted harshly in the restraints, only for mind-numbing agony to spear through his left shoulder and upper back, the skin raw and chafing against the paper sheets. Something thin and sharp stabbed into his neck almost instantaneously, silencing the screams and the begging. His eyelids fluttered, as every contour within his sight began to soften._

_“There there... Rest assured, it’s better this way. This is no world into which to bring a child, is it? And when that world comes, there will be others to bear progeny. Those who are fit. You are unfit, but you desire the best for the future, do you not? You will bear a far greater burden.”_

_He barely comprehended a word, limbs shifting weakly as his eyelids grew heavier. Gloved hands caught his head, lowered him gently to the table as consciousness slipped away, the quiet suction of the machines fading like a lullaby..._

Metal struck flesh and, beneath it, bone. He felt the give of fractures, heard the impact as a body met the wall of the vault, the heavy odor in the air lifting mercifully.

There was no such thing as mercy, he recalled as he slipped from the torn restraints, quivering. He’d embodied that sentiment a thousand times over.

Light flooded his eyes painfully as he ripped the obstruction free, blood and bone fingers curling tightly around the seamless black polymer.

Mercy...

He should have known better.

*

“It’s not that we’re concerned about permanent damage, sir –“ the bow-tied endocrinologist babbled, too quickly.

“There are natural defenses that can kick in if necessary, what’s worrying us is the timeframe – if we rely too much on self-correction, we could be looking at days, weeks of incapacity...“

The leather secretarial chair creaked subtly with each bored half-turn, lined knuckles tapping on the slender armrests. A vibrant strain of classical music blared from the unobtrusive ceiling speakers, violins and a French horn solo or two... Entertaining, and still tranquil enough to allow freedom of concentration.

“You know this one?”

The shorter man blinked.

“Sir?”

“Tchaikovsky, Neapolitan dance – Andantino quasi moderato. My daughter’s flying in for the weekend, wants to see Swan Lake at the Kennedy Center.”

He turned slowly, the toe of a polished wingtip brushing the gleaming floor tile.  “Just brushing up, in case she decides to quiz me in the intermission.”

Swallowing uncomfortably, the specialist managed a tight smile, as Alexander Pierce straightened his glasses and turned back to the neat stack of documents spread on the desk pad, a black and gold fountain pen clicking open carefully.

“Anything you can give him?”

“Well, aside from the usual suppressants in his cocktail, the best we could safely manage is water and a few doses of the Pill – anything stronger than his regular regimen and we’ll be risking internal defects.”

Pierce gave him a slow nod, brows furrowing slightly.

“...Have you run the tests yet?”

“Oh, uh – no sir, not yet; since the breeding cycle wasn’t completed, we weren’t certain of the protocol -”

“Mm - Call Tricia in, have her do a blood sample and some cancer smears, probably a full pelvic while she’s at it wouldn’t hurt.”

He nodded, rapidly typing up the directions on a small handheld pad.

“And the medication?”

“Keep him on the usual, but let’s up the dosage – as high as you can safely push it. Throw in the Morning After just to be safe... And then tell Rumlow to hit the showers. Make sure he’s thorough.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Secretary let out a quiet sigh as the office door clicked shut, easing off his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose gently. Sometimes it was hard to believe retirement was still twenty years off.

The violins swelled as he switched the security cameras back on – those poor idiots in ITE were groveling to him on a near daily basis, apologizing for the constant technological failures, promising that repairs were underway, it was almost laughable – and, on reflection, tuned the volume down a few levels as his thumb glided across a smartphone screen, led by muscle memory.

The recipient picked up on the second and a half ring. As always.

“The risk period is concluded, but I’m anticipating some carry-over for the next few days. I’ve given orders for maximum containment effort, but we both know how well that’s gone. Keep it blanketed.”

He ended the call with a decisive flick of his thumb, before settling back behind the enormous desk and, after a moment’s contemplation, buzzed his P.A. for a cup of La Esmeralda. If he buckled down now, perhaps he could leave the office early – God knew he’d need some time to clean himself up before tonight. Marianne would never forgive him if he showed up late.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOO sorry about the elongated wait for this chapter, and thank you so much for your incredible reviews! Hope you enjoy this latest installment! :)

“I just... I think it’s getting worse,” Steve muttered, feet braced firmly on the spotless white tile as his head hung over tightly folded hands.

“I try to focus – try to keep my head level... and every... every time...”

The silver haired man opposite gave an exasperated sigh.

“Just swear if you need to, Captain – no one else is listening.”

Steve bit at his tongue, a momentary rush of frustration coloring his cheekbones.

“... I’ve asked for a transfer to religious counseling –“

“Ah, right – good idea. Unless, you know – there’s a biological problem at hand, and if that’s the case all that fear of the almighty and ‘answers in faith’ will get you precisely nowhere.”

A humorless chuckle dug itself from expansive lungs.

“So you think I’m crazy?”

“Steven, I’ve been rewiring the minds of traumatized soldiers since long before they got your heart to pump oxygen for the second time. Yeah, most of them were shell-shock, cut and dry, but marital grief – sure. I’ve spoken to men and women of every secondary gender, and every single one of them had a sob story to make you bawl or vomit, sometimes simultaneously, but I have never run across an alpha insistently experiencing reoccurring olfactory hallucination outside of a psych ward, usually accompanied by vivid flashbulb recollection with or without an external trigger – even those in the pray trade are going to call that a little this side of not-all-there, so let’s cut the bull, shall we, captain?”

Reinforced jaw bones ground together to the point of physical pain, white-hot tendrils curling down the sides of his throat like tree roots.

They’d called Harold Carver the best psychologist available on SHEILD’s dime, and even after six months of relatively unsuccessful therapy Steve was still inclined to believe them.

After all, psychological intervention for these kinds of things was usually only moderately effective if the patient was cooperative and had any desire to recover.

Steve had long stopped desiring much of anything lately.

But... mental illness?

Grief was complicated, he knew that better than most. Soldiers often did. Most learned to accept it, continued with life – found new friends, mated again, had more children.

Some didn’t.

Some couldn’t force themselves out of their own bunks in the morning, jumped at any chance, however ridiculous, that every confirmation and certificate and often the evidence of their own eyes was incorrect and somehow, _somehow,_ the corpse that had been shipped home for burial – or lost in a snow-clotted ravine - might walk through the tent flap one night and smile...

Mind suddenly working feverishly, Steve clenched his hands against the padded armrests until both rows of knuckles went white. He’d never considered the possibility of becoming a statistic, just one more mark on one of the thousands of numbered lists circulating the twenty-first century... Strapped against his own body by waxed linen and reinforced leather, his blood boiling as impersonal white hands lowered him into vats of half-boiling water, the clouds of steam mugging his senses...

Blue eyes glared up at Carver’s amenable face.

“... I’m not insane.”

The man wet his lips.

“I thought you might say that.” He leaned back, arms folded over his pressed lapels. “And I also have a hunch that your next line of inquiry will be over another run of medication, which, sorry Cap, is not legally happening. You’ve been shooting yourself up with enough Depo to kill a man, because at your regeneration rate we’re talking at least six times the recommended amount to effectively tie your rocks off. So, Steve – why don’t we start by discussing your options?”   

Brows creased, the captain glanced back to the floor tiles as if counting them, a moist tongue darting absently across chapped lips.

“... No.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m saying no. I know when I’m thinking straight and when I’m not, and I haven’t-“

“Captain, you’ve been on an emotional roller-coaster for the past several years, and by the sounds of it, things are building to a head.” Carver responded slowly, tongue twisting around the words as they were formed as if to test the flavor, while he flicked through the screens of the StarkTablet in his lap.

“Six episodes in the last two months alone, most while active in the field – reoccurrences increased after your assignment to the STRIKE and Intervention division, escalating in severity to the point of hallucinatory imagery and, I’m sorry, certain symptoms indicative of prolonged grief disorder.”

He seemed to calm suddenly, breathing in deeply through impressive nostrils.

“Look, Steven, after your last episode yesterday – sour mission, you lost men, that freak building collapse, and then falling into a relapse just when you’re dragging Agent Rumlow out of the mess – it might be best to consider at least taking some leave of absence. So you’d rather not cover psychosis-sourced therapy – okay. But at the very least, go get some fresh air. Take a break, clear your head. Come back once you’re feeling balanced, and we’ll take steps from there. Understand?”

Steve let his eyes flicker shut a moment, before getting to his feet and scooping the shield up from it’s lean against the chair.

“Perfectly, doctor. Thank you for your time.”

Another sigh, and Carver nodded to him, fingers drumming against the arm rest until the glass door clicked shut and footsteps faded against the hall tile.

The man was on his feet in a flash, scrambling across the desk for the touch-screen phone resting beside the water carafe. Fingers flew through the list of locked contacts, hurriedly typing in a lengthy password – stabbing down at the keys with a little more force than was necessary when the screen refused to immediately respond.

The ringtone at the receiving end buzzed for half a minute, before the pick-up.

“He turned down the offer. Not much chance of reconsideration. No – no sir, if the Pill isn’t working as an effective mask, then the free market blockers are worthless, and I’ve tested just about every brand name in the free world on that bastard’s system – unless we can come up with an advanced formula inside the timeframe, we’ve exhausted the pharmaceutical option. It’s on you now, sir.”

*

Ending the call with the ‘beep’ of an onscreen button, Pierce laid the phone down before activating the secure line and gingerly removing his silver-rimmed glasses.

“ _Sir?”_

“Launch Strike, initiate Operation Arid, order thirty-two. Report in three.”

“ _Yes sir.”_

He killed the line with a flick of his thumb, turning back to the Benghazi reports scattered over his desk as he carefully scrubbed at the spectacle lenses with a square of chamois leather.

*

By ten am, the Triskellion food court was already packed. Unsurprising. Most operatives didn’t get to the previous night’s dinner until eleven the next day; by now, at nine-thirty five, most of the administration division and operations control had settled down with their re-heated sushi and passable mock-ups of jujeh kabab. Steve couldn’t help an eye-roll as the scents of dyes and some kind of oily preservative drifted across his senses – easy enough to color a shapeless mass of carbohydrates, stick it in a mold, and sell it as foreign cuisine with a matching price tag to the mindless masses. God bless America.

The barista at the coffee counter couldn’t have been more than twenty, and his sleep-deprived eyes went wider than a machine gun barrel when six feet two inches of muscle leaned heavily against the faux marble.

“Regular black. No shots, please.”

The pimply employee gave a quick nod, eyes still doubled in size, and ducked behind the counter.

Sighing, Steve let his head fall limp to his chest, forearms supporting the whole of his weight on the countertop as he registered the stress-ache in the back of his neck for the first time.

Caffeine wouldn’t stay in his system for very long, but the brief burst of energy would be worth the crash later. Clear his head, as Carver had put it...

The sigh morphed into a quiet groan, as he bit his lip.

There was more than enough possibility that the specialist was over-analyzing – it happened all the time. Besides, he didn’t always bounce back seamlessly after every mission, it’d be impossible, and last night had been more grueling than most. Threatened civilians always guaranteed that things would get messy, and history hadn’t failed. The UN ambassador and her staff had been airlifted out of the hazard zone, of course, but at the cost of four agents when an IED went off on the third building level.

The paperwork involved could give anyone tension migraines, let alone genetically engineered superhumans.

Tension. Yeah, that would explain plenty. Tension, stress, maybe some side effects of the medication, any number of things really... Maybe Carver had a point, and he’d be better off finding himself some... company.

Blue eyes scanned over the expanse of steel-topped tables, landing briefly on Agent Thirteen’s blonde curls as she chatted genially with a pair of administration assistants from the accounting department, her rose colored tongue lapping whipped icing off a pale cupcake. Pretty. Besides, he didn’t really think he’d been forcing himself to give Kate the Nurse a smile every evening, despite Natasha’s daily pressure... Maybe...

_The small windows were full open to let in a bit of sunlight and fresh air, the best they could manage to try and flush out the sticky-sweet redolence that had Steve’s frail little body near to fits, a half-hearted knot swelling weakly against his pelvic bone. The cacophony of Brooklyn traffic floated up from the road several floors down, not quite sufficient to muffle Bucky’s miserable, burnt-out tears as he rutted helplessly against the bedcovers, sweat glistening along his bare back, every desperate, overloaded cell screaming to the alpha-runt for everything he physically couldn’t give –_

_“Steve... Stevie -!”_

No, his brain protested fiercely, slamming shut against the overload of repressed memory.

Not you.

\- A thick-fingered hand landed on his shoulder, ripping him harshly back into the present.

“Captain.” A cigarette gravelled voice muttered, just over the shuffle of multiple booted feet close by.

Swallowing around a dry throat, Steve lifted his brow in a passable attempt at a greeting.

“Rumlow. ”

The coffee strainer hummed quietly behind the counter.

“The Man Upstairs wants you in his office in six – we’ve been told to walk you up.”

There was sweat in the air... Sweat, nerves, and the faintest crackling hint of electricity.

“I take it there’s no chance I could send my regrets.”

“Not really, Cap. Sorry.”

Steve clucked his tongue ruefully.

“Shame.”

The energy locked inside coiled muscles was palpable... Blood thrumming under veins widened by heavy levels of artificial stamina...

“I could’ve used that coffee.”

The tension snapped.

A pair of burly night op specialists attempted to jump him from behind, meaty arms latching around his chest as nine stun batons sparked to life. Several screams rose up from the tables nearby, with a scuffling of feet against tile as a few hundred SHIELD employees jumped from their seats in alarm.

Bone met reinforced bone with a sickening crack as Steve whipped his head backwards, catching the larger of the two on his sweating forehead. The man dropped like a stone, the other sent flying into a salad bar a few feet away.

“Woah, woah, big guy –“

Rumlow crept forward, one hand outstretched as if to soothe an aggressive animal, the other clutching an already activated baton.

“This is for your own good, Cap – let’s just take it quietly, yeah?”

A faint buzz went up from the captive audience.

Blue eyes flickered between nine identically terse glares, back to Rumlow’s almost smug glower, fat drops of sweat glittering against his sun-baked skin . A quiet sigh, and Steve lifted a gloved hand –

A warm stench drifted across his senses, sweet like maple sugar, a Brooklyn candy shop, smothering him in honey and heady familiarity, and it was too strong, too potent for a shadow created by a sick mind, impossible -

White-hot pain shot through his muscles as one of the electrical rods came down on his left shoulder blade in those few precious seconds of distraction, searing down the length of his spine and throbbing at the base of his skull. Misgivings were instantly replaced by panic, followed swiftly by indignant rage, and instinctual skill immediately took control.

Charleton landed against one of the pillars supporting the ceiling roundel, his back smashing against the polished stone with a meaty thud. A howl, and Mcguire joined him, twitching as his head crashed against the floor tile before his body went still, the baton fissuring beside his arm. Within half a minute, nine bodies were scattered across the floor and over the countertop, rust-red smears painting the spotless white tile.

His chest heaving, Steve managed to turn just as Rumlow lunged, a bolt of electricity catching him full in the stomach, Rumlow’s bared-teeth grin echoing his own agonized roar; Muscles spasming, one arm shot forward and seized his attacker by the collar of his black t-shirt, flinging him clear over the counter like a ragdoll, directly onto the surface of a grey-metal tub. He clattered to the floor, screaming as a shower of brown-gold liquid and several half-cooked chicken legs spilled over his neck, shoulders, and arms – angry red marks began to color the bared flesh as Steve whipped the shield off his back and ran for the fire escape. Several well-timed leaps had him at the top of the white-steel staircase just as the black kevlar-clad strike units tore through the main doors. Screams rose up from some of the witnesses now huddled under various tables as the shooting began, cartridge casings ringing against the floor tile.

A few bashes with the shield broke the lock on the emergency exit and forced the door open. Sunlight poured down into the subterranean hall, blinding now that it was no longer muted by the frosted glass of the ceiling dome. Eyes smarting, he stumbled up the final steps, half crawling onto the gleaming white pavement before dashing towards the garage entrance, the gunfire echoing up from the hatch left behind him.

*

“Eyes here!”

The quiet shuffle of movement ceased, as every operative in the room glanced up, standing to attention like a misbehaved clique of school children.

“Whatever your op is, bury it. This is Level One.”

An immediate tension rippled across the listeners as Steve Rogers’ face appeared on the overhead monitor, which Sitwell apparently chose to ignore.

“Contact DOT – All traffic lights in the district go red. Shut all runways at BWI, IAD, and Reagan. All security cameras in the city go through this monitor right here. Scan all open sources – phones, computers, PDAs, whatever. If someone _tweets_ about this guy, I wanna know about it!”

Murmurs floated through the crowd, narrowed eyes, shallowly shaking heads, before a female voice broke the strain, barely containing exasperation – and anxiety.

“With all due respect, if SHEILD is conducting a manhunt for Captain America, we deserve to know why -?”

“Because he lied to us,” came a familiar timbre, though most in the room had only come into contact through audio recordings.

The crowd parted in front of the Secretary like the red sea, and for most the deification would not have been incorrect.

“Captain Rogers has displayed strong evidence of a psychological breakdown due to environmental and emotional stressors. Most of you witnessed his conduct this morning, after resisting escort by STRIKE personnel. He made mincemeat of his own team, and he’ll do the same on others less qualified for self-defense. As difficult as this is to accept...”

Pierce took a brief moment to fix his eyes on the handsome face displayed through the monitor.

“... Captain America is now to be considered a risk to public safety, and it’s our responsibility to the people of this city – of this nation – to bring him home secure for the help that he, or any decorated American veteran, fully deserves.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come leave me love notes on tumblr: http://shakespeareia.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh, so sorry that this took so long! Work's been kicking me in the ass and with classes about to start up again… Anyway, lame excuses aside, I hope you enjoy the latest installment! :)
> 
> Warnings for some grisly imagery involving medical procedures, and allusions to a forced abortion procedure.

“ – Timeframe?”

Latex-gloved fingers tugged aside an antiseptic mask, bloody smears imprinted nauseatingly over the mint green tissue.

“The allograft should last about ten days, give or take; we’ll schedule a permanent procedure for next week –“

Grey-blue eyes swept dispassionately over the half-naked body strapped to the surgical table, dark eyes bloodshot as he groaned agonizingly from between clenched teeth.

Waving off the surgeon, Pierce tugged over one of the backless stools and seated himself next to the patient’s head. Tense muscles in the face visibly tightened, yanking at the mesh of dead skin – pale and stinking, like overripe cheese - stapled over the stretch of bleeding burn wounds down his face and neck.

“I know it’s painful.” The secretary muttered coldly. “Consider it a learning experience.”

His only response was an animalistic growl.

“Sorry?”

Black eyes glittered with rage before a hoarse voice managed to rasp out a few words.

“... Yes sir.”

Pierce narrowed his eyes before continuing.

“Listen to me carefully – the clock is ticking, and there’s no time for repetition. The council has voted to delay the Insight launch for the next forty-eight hours – apparently dealing with a national symbol on the lamb takes precedence. That lengthens our timeframe to three days. Understood?”

“Yes... sir.”

“Rogers is a boy scout – if he hasn’t made a run for his assigned safety zone by now, I’ll be astonished. Start off with protocol nine-four-six, let’s see if we can’t do this the simple way first. If not, then and only then make the call. The Asset is still in a volatile state, we don’t need to run any unnecessary risks.”

He managed a nod, muscles trembling.

“... And after that... sir?”

The secretary raised his eyebrows, as the man prone on the table let his eyelids flutter shut, jaws grinding together brutally.

“I have the right... to ask...”

Pierce wet his lips.

“ Do you know why I chose you, Brock?” he muttered, leaning forward heavily. “Not because you were a paragon of alphic masculinity, or the only man in sixteen who didn’t salivate at the sight of him – but because you _understood_ , Brock. You could appreciate the gravity of the ideal, and you embraced it without flinching – more than I could expect of a green twenty-nine year old. There was risk involved, given your proximity to Threat A, but it was a risk I was willing to take.”

Rumlow stiffened as the man drew closer, his voice lowering.

“You’ve lost perspective, Agent. Pain brings order – it’s a necessary sacrifice of dignity. Put simply Brock, you weren’t the best because you could incite order quickly – you were the best because you could apply pain without apprehension. We never told you to enjoy it.”

The black-eyed glare deepened as Pierce leaned back, once again the picture of quiet efficiency.

“This situation has proven to be more trouble than it’s worth in the long run, and given recent events, we can’t risk a breech in confidentiality.  The Asset will undergo sterilization immediately following completion of Operation Arid – “

“Sir -!”

“ – The floor isn’t open for debate, Rumlow. Insight will render his original initiative obsolete, and I won’t waste resources when it’s easier to make cuts. Literally, if you like. Termination of the Winter Soldier program in it’s entirety isn’t quite off the table to begin with, but I’m not fully ready to take measures of that magnitude.”

“Pierce, I have the right to objec-“

“You’d be correct if the asset had legally made the decision to become your mate without coercion – but I think we both know that’s not the situation here. Time to find yourself some new tail, Brock. I hear speed-dating can be pretty effective.”

Pierce got to his feet with a creak from the stool, ignoring the enraged snarls from the wounded man behind his back.

“I want him cleared for action within twelve hours. Be as creative as you like.”

The surgeon nodded as the secretary moved toward the door, before turning his head back towards the table.

“That camp is approximately three miles across and five miles long. Leave a crater if necessary.”

Rumlow glanced up, gaze burning.

“With pleasure – sir.”

*

Vibranium sliced through rusted elevator cables like a needle between silk, the car plummeting with an ear-bursting screech of disused metal as Steve gripped one of the handicap bars bolted to the wall, fighting back the sensation of his belly flopping somewhere in his throat.

The camp hadn’t changed much since his last visit with the team almost a year previously, freshly applied layers of dust and cobweb congealing over the metal and woodwork. Fury had made some song and dance during the tour about restoring the old SHIELD HQ as an emergency back up - a proverbial “secret hide-out”, if one wanted to oversimplify things – but it seemed not even elite government agencies were insusceptible to the contemporary economy. Budget cuts had descended, and the plans were scrapped roughly weeks before the Avengers Initiative altogether was dropped from the lists.

Fortunately the dummy ammo shed was still technically in commission, and the homing beacon technology hadn’t been fully uninstalled quite yet – the Triskellion would receive a “clock-in” alert, and with a bit of luck, ping back whether the threat had been immobilized or to remain in hiding until further notice. Agent Hill had quizzed them all on the protocol, time after time – no one could tell when a SHIELD branch might turn rogue or some political higher-ups would decide the world was safer without advanced humanity...

Nothing had been touched or disturbed inside the base – Howard’s photo still tilted awkwardly to the right, the clocks still stuck at precisely four-thirty six AM. Had Steve been a poetic, he might have allowed himself the chance to imagine a world frozen over for seven decades, just kept safe to wait for him. He’d bit his lip at the thought, running a fingertip through the dust accumulated over the frame of Peggy’s portrait.

The world wasn’t so kind.

Lost inside his own head, it taken nearly five minutes for him to notice the musty draft breezing across his cheekbone and left ear, another two to locate the source and pry open the walls to reveal a pair of rusted steel doors that had to date back at least several decades...

Rust was an appropriate analogy, he mused bitterly as the control panel and the elevator cables gave way under the shield.

Rusted, slow to react, ancient, outdated, unused...

The walls of the car shuddered violently as the base slammed into the building foundations, the aftershocks travelling up his legs and spine, vibrating the bones painfully.

Both doors squeezed open to reveal what appeared to be an unlit corridor – a musty combination of mildew and rodent feces wafted into the elevator shaft, carried by moist air. For a moment Steve wondered if he hadn’t taken a wrong turn and wound up in the former morgue, before a string of fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life with his first step.  Since when did buildings refurbished in the fifties contain motion detection?

Hand tightening around the shield, he kept his pace slow as the lights flickered, gradually revealing an enormous technological console and rows upon rows of glass boxes filled with cogs and dead lights. The display as a whole seemed to stretch for miles inside the basement, and despite the aged appearance of the hardware, Steve couldn’t help but be slightly awed. They’d been bragging about stuff like it since the war, models of sci-fi-esque machines circulating the states, each and every one claiming to be the key to defeating Adolf and the axis... They’d had one at the expo in ’43...

Steve gritted his teeth, taking a hesitant step towards what was presumably the primary monitor – was that what they called them? – only to retreat in vague alarm as the lights filling the system began to flash, the cogs spinning pendulously at varying speeds independent of all the rest, and a minute plastic box with a single black eye creaked upwards gradually, seeming to catch him in it’s gaze...

He swallowed down a tense breath, lips tightening into a white line. It was a machine... just an antiquated collection of bolts and wires roped together to form a few short phrases-

As if to reiterate his nervous conviction, a string of green letters scrolled across the screen, accompanied by a buzzing, mechanical impersonation of a voice.

_Initiate system?_

A blinking green bar awaited his response, as he gnawed at his lip. This was Stark’s territory, not his – this was buttons and numbered codes and everything he’d never been trained to deal with.

There was no one to reassure him whether or not to press three lettered keys, but there was only one option that would do him any good, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that his time was limited anyway.

The machinery hummed, an engine revving before opening the throttle, as the plastic camera creaked slightly to the left, an uncanny voice echoing tinnily from the oversized speakers.

“ _Rogers, Steven. Born 1918.”_

Blue eyes widened, as a green, skull-like visage flickered into existence across a pixelated screen.

“ _Your lapse in recognition is forgivable, Captain – I know all too well how seventy years can change a man.”_

Something white hot and chilling pooled inside his gut, the tips of his fingers cold as a staticky image buzzed onto the screen of the second largest monitor, small eyes magnified by thick spectacles as they peered shrewdly from a softened face...

“Arnim Zola has been dead for years – “

“ _Look around you – I have never been more alive. In 1972 I received a terminal diagnosis; science could not save my body. My mind, however; that was worth saving – on two hundred thousand feet of databanks. You are standing in my brain.”_

Steve swallowed down a mouthful of bile, heart thumping erratically inside his chest as he circled behind the console, the size of the equipment assuring him that the likelihood of the situation being a sick prank was shrinking by the second...

“...How did you get here?”

_“Invited. At the close of the war, the newly created Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division began the process of engaging former scientists of the Axis government, on the basis that one might learn as much from the enemy as from a friend. They thought my intelligence might prove helpful to their cause – however, it provided the ideal opportunity to help my own.”_

Images flickered across the monitors – men and women in somber colored uniforms, burning corpses, bubbling chemicals – and amidst it all, a twisted insignia Steve had come to dread with a stronger intensity then the swastika.

“ N– Hydra died with the Red Skull – “

“ _Cut off one head – two more shall take it’s place.”_ the computer responded, with a mechanical blurt that might have served it as a chuckle.

“Prove it.”

“ _Accessing archive...”_

The images increased, varying in quality and detail with a serious of clicks and shuffles.

“ _Hydra was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with it’s own freedom. What we did not realize, was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist. The war taught us much – humanity needed to surrender it’s freedom willingly...”_

Steve mutely noticed the chill in his core expand until every muscle felt numb, as the... thing, whatever the twisted mechanical parody of a human psyche chose to call itself, continued to elaborate with an almost saccharine glee.

_“For seventy years, Hydra has been secretly feeding crisis; reaping war – and when history did not cooperate, history was changed.”_

“That – oh God - that’s not possible, SHIELD would have stopped you-“

_“Hydra’s chief prerogative over the years has been to render the impossible, possible, Captain.”_

The screen changed, depicting a digital map, followed swiftly by outdated body scans and x-ray photography.

_“In December of 1945, scouting operatives recovered a brutally mangled body from a lower canyon of the swiss alps – damaged, but alive, due to previous intervention of my own formulae. While his genetic and hormonal predispositions initially gave my superiors cause to consider him useless, with acute physical and mental recalibration I was able to alter their view. We discovered quickly that purely technological espionage would be insufficient munitions to prepare the world for the initiation of the New Order.”_

“N-No...” Steve mumbled, limbs trembling with increasing violence as a sepia tinted photograph of a dark-haired young army officer was quickly superseded by grainy laboratory footage of a sweat sheened body, restrained to a metal table by his one surviving arm – something nightmarish resembling a black rubber gas mask had been strapped over the lower half of the face, a long black hose stretching somewhere out of the camera’s view, almost matching the second, grey length that reached between his legs...   

“No... no no no no – th-this is sick... I’m sick... this isn’t... can’t...”

_“ – there had been repeated attempts to uncover Abraham Erskine’s original compound, in the hopes of recreating the supersoldier ideal for fulfillment of Hydra’s original objectives; suffice to say, none were successful... Until my own venture. After application of the newly developed formula, Hydra’s greatest asset was declared prime in readiness for it’s new directive – the elimination of any present or future threat to humanity’s untimely freedom.”_

A blood-soaked montage flowed across the monitor – bodies zipped into black bags, coffins lowered into muddy dirt, limbs riddled with bullet holes, blood, scorched by flames-

Shaking his head feverishly, Steve gripped at the console for bodily support, the shield hanging limply from slack fingers.

“...Erskine’s serum was impossible to replicate – all the codes were locked in his head, everyone knew that –“

 _“Impossible for some – not all.”_ The computer replied in what was unmistakably a sneer.

_“After your death in 1945, many scientists lost hope of reproducing the serum’s effects due to the demise of it’s two solitary test subjects – Johann Schmidt, and of course yourself. The widespread theory would involve reverse engineering a chemical compound based on the celluar changes inflicted upon your own DNA, but without a surviving sample, there seemed to be no possibility. Until, Captain, examination of the asset revealed that not only had I received a suitable test candidate, but that you yourself had provided me with the only known specimen of your genetic cellular makeup, perfectly compatible with the asset’s physiology due to shared blood type and biologic traits – After this discovery, it was simply...”_

The screen blurred to reveal a few shadowy internal photographs depicting a tiny cluster of cells that only just resembled a human being, clearly taken by some primitive medical device – the images grained again, as the cells were drawn from the wall affixing them together by a curved instrument – video footage, a semi-transparent, pinkish fluid emptied from a syringe into a thin test tube, held by gloved hands as a pale, indistinct figure writhed on a slab in the distant background...

_“... too easy.”_

Steven’s mind snapped.

Animalistic roars surged up from his chest as he lunged for the monitor, spider webbed cracks fracturing the screen as his fist smashed against the glass. Metal and plexi-fabrics screamed as they warped and sagged under heavy blows, the shield leaving craterlike-dents in the wreckage.

Steve was vaguely aware of the tear tracks marking his skin, his bleeding hands, but felt nothing, every circuit in his brain fissuring uncontrollably as blood surged behind his eyes.

_Die, die, die..._

A few sparks burst from the buckled remains of the computer console, every screen crushed into an ugly tangle of metal and circuitry as he stood over his handiwork, gasping for breath, his vision clearing as the pain in his arms became obvious, the taste of salt on his lip...

Muscles trembled as Steve crumpled shakily to his knees, torn fingertips brushing along a piece of shattered glass from the primary screen.

“Buck...”

~*~

_Dead silence greeted them on the return to HQ, some eyes staring in shock, some in pain, some as if he were a rabid dog in a cage, unsure of what he might do next if they prodded the bars._

_Steve ignored them, all but running for the map table and riffling through the piles of graphed canvas._

_“I need every existing chart mapping here to the Zurich river – altitude measurements, water depth –“_

_The blonde corporal gazed back at him with something akin to pity, her lipstick smeared mouth tightened into a thin line._

_“That was an order.”_

_She didn’t budge, swallowing nervously._

_One of Dugan’s large hands squeezed gently at his shoulder._

_“Captain...”_

_Steve shoved away from the contact, fighting to ignore the trembling working it’s way from his wrists to each fingertip, the charts crumpling as he shuffled aside handfuls of thick paper._

_“The, um – the drift couldn’t have been far, not with a slow current, so we’ll have some time – get the others suited up, for heavy rescue - “_

_“Steve...“ a low voice muttered, a few feet away. He glanced up, huffing out a relieved groan._

_“Howard – thank God – need you to pull a few tricks out of that magic hat and get us a few clicks outside of the Glarners – the train was about halfway to Andermatt, so, uh, so with a few pushes we could make it there in about three hours –“_

_“Steve-“ The tone was sterner now._

_“Oh, and I- I- I need an advanced med team, best you can crank out in half an hour – and fly in an obstetrician from, um, from Altdorf, he’ll want someone to check on the baby, he’s awful nervous about that – um, uh –“_

_Most eyes in the room had turned to the floor, lips caught between teeth, while others kept up expressions of pitying exasperation._

_“-the current fuel set alone could have us there in less than two hours without violating reserves and – I – there’s – look, there’s options, there are – there’s just, there’s got to-“_

_He was trembling all over, hands tightening into shaking fists._

_“ – you’re the science reserve, there’s - there’s something you could do, otherwise WHAT IS THE GOD-DAMN POINT OF YOU?!”_

_Before anyone could react, Steve had vaulted the table and pinned the engineer to the wall by his shoulders, his eyes bloodshot as he shook him like a puppy, jaws rattling._

_“YOU DO YOUR DAMNED JOB AND YOU BRING THEM BACK, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, HOWARD FUCKING STARK?!”_

_Hands were all over him in seconds, tugging him away as Howard choked for breath, in amidst the hysteria as his own men weighted him down to the floor with every ounce of their strength, Peggy’s kitten heels clattering on the floorboards as she rushed over and began shushing him gently, her fingers in his hair as he let the tears come._

_~*~_

A sudden blaring shriek tore him back into the present, siren-like red alarms flashing blindingly from every corner of the massive room.

Something purely military embedded in his psyche forced him to respond, climbing to his feet as gasping sobs wracked his muscles. The mangled computers spat out a few last sparks while he made a wild dash for the door, pounding at the reinforced steel with over-exhausted muscles. The alarms continued screaming, the cadence of the sound waves a steady pulse through his brain until both ears seemed numb, and with a last scream of frustration he turned his eyes to the floor instead.

Three metal grilles lay imbedded in the thick tile, presumably a ventilation source of some kind, and impossible for any ordinary human to pry loose. The bars peeled back like foil under his grip, leaving a space just wide enough to slip through as the bunker above erupted into flames...

*

Mesh-gloved hands tightened against the rifle, the dead flesh of his face pulled into a near permanent grimace as the searchlights flickered across a large footprint, vanishing in the ashes.

“- Call in the Asset.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to review and tell me which parts made you laugh, cry, want to throw the computer/phone at the wall - it's a wonderful motivator and I love hearing from you all! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I sincerely apologize for the wait! Mental exhaustion, writer's block - none of it makes for very good motivation.  
> Shorter chapter this time, as I've chopped it in two - meaning hopefully chapter six will be up sooner rather than later. However, I hope you enjoy regardless!

Sam Wilson had learned quickly that by dividing up the hours of the day into precise chunks, devoting a purpose to each and sticking religiously to the schedule come flood, fire, and brimstone, those twenty-four hours seemed to pass surprisingly quickly.Besides, keeping busy didn’t offer you much time to dwell on regrets.

So far, the morning arrangement had been simple - several brisk laps through Washington’s historic district, followed by a light breakfast of juice, egg whites, and toast, a warm shower, and various menial errands until the scheduled sessions at the Vet. Affairs office. Call it a form of mental exercise, a way to remain sane.

The orange juice washed down his throat in a wave, providing a welcome contrast to the cold morning sweat bathing his skin. The ache spreading through the arches of his feet seemed to be worsening, maybe it was time to invest in something a little more durable than his five year old, second hand Nikes... As if he’d ever part with them.

An uneven tapping on the glass patio door interrupted his train of thought, and sparks of dull pain continued to drift up the backs of his calves as he pulled up the door blinds and slid back the glass panel, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“... Hey man.”

*

He’d seen some frightening shit in his life – enough for three lifetimes. The little girl lying in his arms, bleeding out from the gaping wounds that had once contained her legs; the crowds of people screaming - not a word of English among them, it seemed - from within a six-story building as it collapsed, the foundations sagging and finally giving out after several minefield explosions; Riley’s frantic shouting over the comm as the grenades swooped down overhead, the static that followed, the heated wetness splattering across the back of his head... A national symbol curled up on his couch, filthy and shaking like a jonesing teenage runaway, certainly made a close second on the list.

“Listen - listen to me - you’re not insane.”

Steve gasped out something heartbreakingly close to a sob, fingers tightening over his dirt-caked hair.

“C’mon – name, rank, serial -!”

It took a moment before the order seemed to process, and the tremors eased slightly.

“R-Rogers, Steven Grant.... Captain... 35523...2...5...”

After several minutes the full numerical strand had been recited, properly as well as in reverse three times, and his muscles had relaxed enough to allow the deathgrip on his scalp to ease.

“You hearin’ me, Cap?”

Wet blue eyes focused in on his own, before a hesitant nod that would have seemed more appropriate to a frightened child.

“Okay... What I need you to do right now is go upstairs – there’s a spare bedroom – I want you to take a shower, get cleaned off and breathe a little, I’ll throw your stuff in the washer, then you come downstairs, eat something, and we’ll talk. We good?” 

No, not at all, Sam berated himself silently, sweating bullets. Finally Steve managed a nod and a strangled “...Okay.” 

Brown eyes followed him all the way up the white-carpeted stairs, leaving dirt prints in the plush fabric, before turning their focus to the pathetic kitchenette in the corner. Something a little more robust than egg whites might be in order, for once... 

* 

The initial explanation took about twenty minutes, and most of it was a little on the wrong side of incomprehensible. Despite the staggering array of outlandish occurrences the world had been exposed to within the past several years, somehow underground Nazi cults still seemed too “sci-fi” to be credited. Where it not for the ashen, gutted expression etched into his blue eyes, Sam would have gifted him with nothing more than a skeptical glare. Orange juice left a pulpy yellow wash along the sides of the glass as Steve tapped a fingernail against the rim, his lips tight. Somewhere outside the sliding door, a robin whittered above the hum of D.C. traffic, while mocha-skinned fingers curled over Steve’s trembling knuckles. 

“If you’d had the choice...” he mumbled, the dried salt tracks pulling at his skin with each word, 

“If it could have been you, and Riley had the chance to...” 

“Don’t.” Sam growled out, eyes fixed in an unforgiving glare. “Regret wastes time.” 

Steve took in a shuddering breath, fingers tightening into a solid fist under the firm grip. 

“... You’re going after him, aren’t you?” 

Blue eyes fluttered shut. 

“I’m not asking you to get involved, Sam.” 

“I know.” 

Releasing his hold with a final squeeze, he crossed over to one of the kitchen cabinets, and yanked a drawer open. Several seconds later, a numbered manilla folder slapped onto the tabletop. 

“When do we start?” 

*

There were unpleasant sides to the job, as Sitwell was consistently reminded. Sitting on his ass for four hours in a too-tight suit, having to smile through Senator “Vogon” Stern’s pathetic non-jokes was certainly one of them, though it gradually became easier to console himself with every mouthful of gulf shrimp salad. An eternity later, Stern had scurried off in his limo to reunite with whatever thirsty little blonde puppy was keeping him occupied this week – Sitwell allowed himself an internal shudder at the mental image – and the agent’s Starkphone began buzzing insistently in his jacket pocket. Praying the security detail missed his unmistakably nervous expression, he waved them off towards the car before swallowing down the trepidation and forcing himself to respond. 

“Yes sir?” 

“ _Agent Sitwell, how was lunch? I hear the crab cakes here are delicious._ ” 

The momentary rush of confusion froze his veins, as his back stiffened. 

“Who is this?” 

“ _Not important – I’m just a voice on the phone. Around the corner on your left is a grey car, peeled paint on the hood – you’re gonna be taking a ride._ ” 

His eyes narrowed, irritation beginning to peer through the overwhelming nerves. 

“And why would I do that?” 

“ _Because the food here is real expensive – and I’d hate for these good people to have their meal spoiled._ ” 

A chill went down his spine as he glanced to his chest, the laser vibrant like blood across the dark fabric. 

“ _Grey car. Two spaces down. Backseat._ ” *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well-thought out feedback is my bread and butter… :)


	6. Chapter 6

Grey cashmere scraped violently across rugged cement as Sitwell was hurled bodily through the roof access doors, his rimless glasses tumbling briefly off of his face and clattering to the ground before he had a chance to right them.

The door left an imprint in the wall behind it as Steve forced it out of his path and zeroed in on his target, eyes near to bloodshot. Sitwell began scrambling to his feet, only succeeding halfway before an enormous hand latched onto the windsor knot of his necktie, forcing the air from his throat as he was dragged upward.

“ _Where is he?_ ”

“Where’s who-?!”

The agent’s illusion of cluelessness would have been perfect, were it not for the smug glow spread across his face. Heat flared somewhere behind Steve’s eyes as his vision reddened, blood surging through his brain at painful levels.

“What were you doing on the _Lemurian Star_?!”

“Throwing up, I –“

The act was abruptly replaced with genuine alarm as the backs of his knees hit the safety rail, both arms flailing for balance until the grip at his collar pulled him just to the brink of safety, the implication obvious as his heels were allowed to dangle over the edge.

Sitwell allowed himself a smirk in an obvious attempt to save face.

“Is this little... display, meant to insinuate that you can throw me off the roof?” he all but sneered, fingers tapping casually at his own thigh.

“’Cause that’s not really your style, Rogers.”

The anger burned white hot as Steve gingerly traced the tip of his tongue along his upper teeth.

“You’re right. It’s not.”

His gaze flicked back to Sitwell’s dull green eyes, which were only just beginning to carry an edge of insecurity.

“ – ‘You married, Jasper?” he inquired suddenly, struggling to keep his tone light.

“’Got kids?”

The bemused expression was all the answer necessary.

“Mm. Then I wouldn’t expect you to fully understand.”

A sneaker-clad foot collided brutally with his belly, sending Jasper Sitwell hurtling from the building edge towards the pavement hundreds of feet below, his screams fading with the distance.

Steve ground his jaws as he paced a little ways from the ledge, the post-rage chills beginning to shake his limbs slightly. Alphas weren’t without their own fragilities...

Screams tore through the air as Sitwell hurtled back onto the roof, the propulsion sending him tumbling six feet past the landing point as a creature part-human, part machine soared overhead and came to land with surprising grace, vast metal and plexi-fiber wings folding in over themselves as domed flight goggles were pushed upward to reveal Sam Wilson’s dark eyes.

It took one step forward to send Sitwell howling, every pore in his skin emitting a cold-egg stench of fear.

“Cophetatic acid!” he yelled, one hand outstretched like a protective plea.

“Th-three cases in the – in the ship’s hold!”

Steve shot a confused glance to Sam, who had clearly seen no point in wasting time and seized their hostage by the scruff of his jacket.

“’Kids on the street call it ‘numb’ –feds took it off the suppressant market decades ago, too many health risks - three cases worth could down a herd of bulls.”

Blue eyes narrowed.

“What’s it for?”

Sitwell gaped disbelievingly for a moment, before dissolving into humorless laughter.

“What’d you think?!”

He gasped out a few hysterical breaths.

“I-I don’t know where exactly they’re keeping him now, it - it’s above my pay-grade, I – I just supply the back-up stuff, in case accidents happen...”

“What kind of accidents?!” Steve growled out, a cold, shuddering part of his mind already anticipating the answer.

Sitwell shot him a scathing glare.

“Like when they can’t get him filled up fast enough-“

A hand was around his throat before the sentence was finished, tightening like a noose.

“ _Steve!_ \- ”

The cry nearly didn’t register, drowned into silence by the roaring in his ears as blood gushed through his brain, veins expanding along every muscle to allow the increased flow as his limbs hardened to the consistency of rock...

Sitwell wriggled like a fish in his grasp, his face going blue, then steadily black, until Steve tossed him across the roof like a ragdoll, his limp form bouncing across the concrete before grating to a stop.

Ignoring Sam’s wide-eyed stare, he stalked over and snatched up the gibbering agent by his fraying jacket lapels, before laying a rapid blow to his left cheekbone, ignoring the second protesting shout.

“You were right, Jasper,” he growled quietly, inches from the man’s cracked glasses.

“This isn’t my style. ‘Captain Rogers never killed a prisoner,’ that’s what the history books all say...”

He paused for a moment, trembling, his mind bathed in red as the image of his mate – strapped down to some clinical surface, bright-eyed with fever, whimpering as a pair of unwelcome, unknown hands groped at pale skin – rose back to the forefront.

“... but pull that again, and I swear to Christ, you’ll learn first hand how it feels to be a historical anomaly. Understand?”

He nodded frantically, gasping for breath.

At a quick signal, Sam pulled out his gun, leveling the barrel at the base of the agent’s skull, his eyes still fixed on Steve with an unreadable expression as he finally spoke in a deadened tone.

“Take us in.”

*

Her fingers were slick as he felt them withdraw, his thighs trembling.

“He’ll be in stage three within a two hour window.”

A snap of latex startled him into a faint jolt, as she peeled away her gloves and tossed them with a damp ‘smack’ onto the supply tray, the sterile cover hanging limp to reveal the clutter of metal instruments.

Papers shuffled somewhere overhead as a man began cursing under his breath.

“Jesus, of all the times and places... what’s his cardio?”

“Eighty-five percent excessive – and climbing, since the last wipe. I’d recommend three starting doses of a muscular relaxant and some analgesics – if he isn’t in physical pain yet, give it about half an hour.”

The Asset wasn’t entirely sure of her meaning – his chest ached, and chills kept him shuddering quietly under the warming lamps, all of which his mind categorized under physical distress… But aside from the bodily malfunctions was the constant, white hot gnawing, a deep-seated need that he couldn’t label, but craved after nonetheless... But... But...

_Something roughly textured chafed at his back, slicing through the sticky film of perspiration that coated every inch of his skin... Weight settled on his chest, and lower, down to the hipbone, as a thick scent – cedar wood, his mind supplied, and something like meat cooking over open flame – soaked into his lungs. Fingers combed through his wet hair, a thumb stroking across his left brow, and he felt, more than heard the sounds that left his throat as muscled arms held him impossibly closer..._

_Was this pain?_

His hips twisted in the restraints, popping a buckle and evidently startling the handlers – there was a telltale rattle as a syringe was dropped to the tile floor, and three rifle barrels were yanked back.

“ - Are those convulsions -?!”

A thumb pulled open his left eyelid, and he found himself staring, unseeingly, into an inquisitive glare.

“Nope – “ the woman responded, retracting a needle from the left ankle and rubbing the injection site with her fingertips as the Asset started trembling with a stronger intensity.

“- I think he’s just dreaming.”

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hesitate to scream your inner most feelings at me, I rather enjoy it. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last - thank you all for your incredible patience!
> 
> Enjoy!

“How long until the Insight launch?”

“Postponed until further notice – Pierce wanted the As– wanted him prime and functioning, in case...” Sitwell’s muttering trailed off, clarification unnecessary.

Terse silence resettled, until Sam appeared to swallow his pride and turned his gaze to the rearview mirror.

“Just answer me this though – who the hell volunteers for... for... that kind of...” he trailed off, his face reddening.

“... No one. The department’s by invitation only –“

Steve broke a personal promise and forced himself to start listening.

“- The country’s leading gyno to keep the plumbing working, two endocrinologists, a pharmacologist, a shrink, and...” He paused abruptly before snapping his jaw shut, focusing his gaze onto the concrete landscape outside the window.

Steve’s fingers tightened against his thigh until the denim threatened to rip, as Sam glanced at him before growling, “A what, hm?... A stud bull?”

The lack of response was enough of an answer.

“...Who?”

The agent whipped around as if he’d been burned.

“What -?!”

“Who is it –“ Steve snarled, every muscle tense with over-coiled energy.

“- give me a name –“

“Pierce’ll kill me –“

Something heavy suddenly slammed onto the roof of the car, leaving a dent in the ceiling. Steve had only a second to register the look of horrified realization on Sitwell’s face before a flash of silver ripped the agent through the smashed window with a shredding of cloth, before flinging him, screaming, into oncoming traffic. Viscera sprayed the window.

Sam cursed loudly and stomped on the brake, bringing the car to a screeching halt as a mass of black and silver was propelled from the roof of the car and smashed to the pavement with a meaty thud.

Steve’s throat emptied of moisture as a shaking hand curled over the edge of the shield, blue eyes gaping.

Sam turned with a stare, his knuckles pale against the steering wheel.

“Is it –“

Images flashed through his mind like gunfire in the dark, bloodied knees in the alley, a smile full of crooked teeth, sparkling blue eyes, the sugary scent of penny candy melting under a summer sun…

The… _thing,_ thirty yards from the car, lifted his head slowly, dark hair fluttering in the gusts of traffic as the light gleamed blindingly off the perfectly sculpted metal rooted where flesh might once have existed. Metal that he had tugged free from the pavement, thick grooves left by his fingers when he had anchored himself to the ground.

Like a machine.

Steve’s unspoken answer was halted by an earsplitting grinding of metal as something collided sharply with the rear of the car – almost simultaneously, the faceless man hurled himself ankle over head and landed on the roof with a meaty thud.

“There’s a Walther in the glove compar -!”

“No! –“

“Steve-!”

“ _Get down!”_

Both men managed to duck as twin bullets tore through the headrests of their seats, seconds apart.

“ _Keep it steady_ –!“ Steve roared over the screaming of metal, the shield on his arm before Sam had fully grasped his intentions.

“Steve, _no_ -!”

The cry came too late, as the car door was flung open and he hurled himself onto the pavement, sparks flying as vibranium screeched across concrete.

The Chevrolet sped past, the crushed rear lights and twisted cables like spilled innards from a corpse, the back tires squealing as it swerved to an abrupt halt alongside the causeway barrier. The sudden shift in momentum sent the uninvited passenger tumbling off the roof and over the side of the bridge, Steve’s heart leaping into his mouth as the strangled scream was heard over the roar of passing traffic.

“No-!”

The car door swung open, Sam toppling out onto the pavement just as a wave of bullets speckled across the blue paint, machine guns rattling barely twenty feet down the bridge.

“Steve-!” A hand caught the sleeve of his jacket, dark eyes fraught. “Steve, it’s no good – he doesn’t know you –“

“He will.” Steve growled back, something grim and protective coiling up from a hidden place in his gut, as another howl of distress echoed nearby.

“Steve-!” Sam shouted again, ducking onto his belly as the volley continued, but too late.

The shock reverberated through his bones as both booted feet slammed onto the bypass road under the bridge, and for several precious, torturous seconds he could only scan the area frantically, as wide-eyed as the civilians with their phones out, filming the carnage – something heavy drove into his side, briefly knocking the air out of his lungs as he hit the pavement.

One goggle lens had been cracked like a spider web, and there was something horrifically benign in the way a gloved hand simply wrenched them away as metal fingers curled into Steve’s throat.

His eyes were blue and wet above the black mask, but devoid of any life, and as the grip tightened Steve felt something in his chest tear jaggedly down the center.

He choked a moment, fighting to speak, before instinct won the battle against emotion. His right arm shot up, slamming the shield against his attacker’s ear and knocking him back with a hoarse shout. In seconds they were both on their feet, and with a startled gasp Steve felt the knife slice across his bicep before he could so much as right his vision to see it.

Ignoring the blood seeping through his jacket, he landed a kick to the belly, blocking several jabs of the blade with his forearms and the rim of the shield, before his opponent seemed to tire of the obstruction. The vibranium hummed in protest when it smacked against a brick cornerstone, toppling down to settle on the pavement, spinning like a dog bowl.

Disarmed and heart pounding, Steve flung his body forward, knocking the other man to the concrete before he had any chance to recover.

“Buck-!” Both arms flew to his wrists, fighting to keep him pinned, but the effort was hopeless; Teeth gritted, Steve pulled himself to his knees, focusing every ounce of his bodyweight to keeping the torso locked down as he grabbed the prosthetic limb by the wrist and elbow, despite the frenzied struggling, his heel digging into the opposite palm.

“‘m sorry, Buck, I’m sorry- !” he started whispering, his voice gradually rising in pitch as he tightened his hold and smashed the arm against the pavement.

A strangled bawl tore from under the half-mask.

“I’m sorry, ‘m sorry, God, ‘m so sorry-!“

_Sorry for everything._

Distantly, Steve realized he must have been sobbing – it was the only explanation for the tightness in his chest or the moisture trickling down towards his neck – but he kept the hold tight, beating the limb into the hard road and fighting to ignore the resulting screams, until he felt something fissure under his palm and a series of quick, stinging sparks like static. He let go slowly, leaving the arm to lie over the concrete, motionless and twitching as electricity flickered between the metal plates.

The body under him was trembling violently, blue eyes wide and watery in a pallid face – or what little he could see of it.

“Shh, shhhh… it’s over – Bucky – Bucky, shhh – I’m sorry, it’s all over – we’ll be okay, we’re gonna be okay – gonna get you outta here -“

He slipped his thumbs along the seam of the mask, where black polymer met skin, before carefully paring it free.

The sugared scent hit him like blow to the gut, leaving him choking a moment as if he’d been smothered in syrup.

Seventy-five years hadn’t taken a day from Bucky’s face, though any joy Steve might have felt from the sight was leached by the dullness in his eyes, lips pale and circled by blue as his lungs rattled, fighting for air.

“No – no no no no -!”

Bucky gasped helplessly as Steve worked down the collar of his jacket, exposing the two swollen, purpling lumps on either side of his jaw, below each ear.

_Jesus, what the hell’ve they done to you?!_

A thumb brushed over one of the glands, and the reaction was immediate – he threw his head back violently, skull cracking against the pavement and earning a sob from Steve. His fingers worked faster, in a useless attempt at stimulating the organs – if anything, they were even larger within seconds and Bucky whimpered in pain at the slightest touch.

“Shhh, it’ll… I… “ he glanced around frantically, but no help was forthcoming.

“Just breathe, okay? Just keep breathing -!”

His hands shook as he stuffed four fingers into his own mouth, sucking hard until they were coated with saliva, and smeared them across the brunet’s lips, into his mouth, over his tongue – it was clumsy and purely instinctive, but the only infallible way he could think of to spread his scent and give Bucky some relief.

He choked once, twice – suddenly his eyes bulged and with a garbled cry of distress his whole body started convulsing.

“No! – Buck-!”

There was a metallic click behind him, seconds before something cold and cylindrical pressed against the base of his skull.

“ _Back it up_!”

Heart pounding, Steve slowly lifted his hands as his mate floundered, and eased away, the familiar rush of blood darkening the edges of his line of sight.

He wouldn’t have known the man behind the gun, were it not for the straps crossed on his chest and the minute skull tattoo etched onto his trigger finger. Rumlow might as well have been wearing a mask – what little remained of his face was marred by scarring, the rest covered by patches of mismatched, plasticine skin.

“On the ground, hands behind your head, ankles crossed – do it!” he roared as an afterthought when Steve shot a glance to the omega sobbing for a breath; he obeyed, slowly. As soon as his forehead touched the ground someone snapped a pair of high-security cuffs over his wrists, before hauling him upright and towards the unmarked black van parked under the bridge.

His flesh felt numb, every scream, every tug to his shoulders seemed like nothing more than a dull hum at the edge of his mind. Both eyes remained fixed on the corner of the street, as Rumlow heaved Bucky’s limp body over his shoulder, the scent of sweet spice and sugar enveloping them both….

_A drop of sweat in a crowded van, a whiff of breath in the elevator…_

Suddenly it felt as though an iron weight had dropped down Steve’s throat and torn through his belly, the pounding behind his eyes increasing to the point of physical pain as the other alpha tightened his grip around the omega’s hips, teeth bared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, all has been revealed...
> 
> As a fair warning to any readers who might be triggered by sensitive material, the next chapter will likely include (at LEAST) some non-con themes. 
> 
> Please review!!! (you all are my bread and butter, and absolutely wonderful!!!)


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